


First Times

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caning, Consensual, Consensual limited violence, Headmaster/student fantasy, M/M, Minor age play, NOT RAPE, NOT abuse, NOT non-consensual, Role play scenes, Spanking, Two men having fun with a bit of a role-play/spanking kink., Whipping, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another story to come out of left field. I will tell the truth--I don't know if this works or not. If it DOES, it's sexy and fun and fairly light-weight.</p><p>The two may demonstrate less than perfect BDSM manners, but within that both are sure of permission, consent, and both monitor each other's reactions, though that's far more obvious of Lestrade as the story is in his POV. In any case, I tried to present some version even regular BDSM aficionados would be able to recognize as fair play, if not particularly practiced fair play. </p><p>Both men have fun. Neither man is taken past his limits--though Mycroft's limits stretch further than I think he himself would have guessed.</p><p>There is "age play" and "teacher/student" play, but there is no actual betrayal of trust or despoiling of minors...nor would either character ever approve of such. The fun is in the game, and the pretending...and in that, they have a lot of fun indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Times

There are a million-million first time events available in any human life of any duration. If first times become fewer and more esoteric with age, that only serves to season the experience: salty, spicy, sweet…

Or all of the above.

At fifty, Lestrade thought he’d done a reasonable amount to shorten the list of firsts available to him, and honestly didn’t expect to take advantage of many of the odder options available. He was not naïve—a career police detective moonlighting as an MI5 spy just isn’t. He probably knew more about the options still open in his unicorn-list than most, and he’d long since concluded that either most did not call to him, or the right chance had not presented itself. His bet was on a lack of appeal in the first place.

If he’d given serious thought to his gambling statistics he might have been more cautious in that conclusion.  But, then, men with his win-rate…or loss-rate…were notorious for failing to take statistics into account on some things.

Not that he’d have wanted to know all his little kinks in advance anyway. There was a charm in stumbling over them all unsuspecting, as he did that night. He was serving as extra security backup for one of Mycroft Holmes’ top-top-super-top-secret, absolutely hush-hush little espionage-cum-diplomacy does for the Foreign Office. It was all very elegant and understated—at least in the espionage department. A select guest list—five men and women with the sexiest secrets currently of interest in global events. A bit of fine food. A bit of good drink. Live music performed by a band isolated behind a one-way, soundproof glass wall, so no one had to kill the poor musicians when the party was over, lest they walk away with classified information gathered between sets. The lighting was dim. Voices were low. Monetary figures mentioned were high.

Lestrade, standing in the shadows of the balcony off the sitting room after the meal ended, felt it had all been a bit of a success. He knew Mycroft well enough by now to read the satisfaction in the set of his shoulders and the cant of his head. He could also read the tension and weariness in the stiff posture of his spine, and the tight, tense movements of his long fingers on the balustrade of the balcony.

“Another resounding victory?” he murmured.

Mycroft sniffed. “It will do.”

“Looked better than just ‘it will do’ to me.”

“Unfortunately, you’re not the final arbiter,” Mycroft growled under his breath, then shot a bitter sidewise glance at Lestrade’s cigarette. “Another half-hour,” he muttered, seeming to promise himself the indulgence once the party was finished.

“Sooner. It’s wrapping up even as we speak—look, Anthea’s begun herding them. Nip-nip. Yap-yap. They’ll all realize like good little sheep that the next field looks ever so much better before fifteen minutes is gone. And this lot isn’t the sort to hang in the doorway gossiping and promising future visits.”

“This is true,” Mycroft said, then gave in to temptation. “May I?” he said, looking longingly at the half-fag remaining in his colleague’s fingers.

Rather than hand it over, Lestrade turned it, holding the filter to face Mycroft. Mycroft leaned in gingerly and took a long drag—then fought back a cough.

“You and Sherlock. What do you have against menthol and effective filtering systems?”

“Baby,” Lestrade said, amused. “Leave the real cigarettes to the big boys. I’ll bring you a box of sugar and mint ones next time you need me for something.”

Mycroft glared—though with more show than sincerity—then silently slipped into the next room, joining Anthea in her herding ritual.

Lestrade stayed in the shadows, watching.

He liked Mycroft. He even found him attractive, in a posh, hands-off-no-trespassing way. Sherlock? Yeah, ok, he’d fantasized sex with the younger Holmes a time or two—he was just the thing you needed when you wanted to wank off to something hot and scary and more than a little insane. Just the kind of daydream you wanted for that—something you’d run screaming from in real life, but that tucked into a slow Sunday afternoon alone quite nicely. Mycroft was harder to imagine. He wasn’t sure how to cast the tall, pleasantly homely elder brother.  He wasn’t even sure he was comfortable casting him in a daydream. It felt too invasive, as though there was something about Mycroft, and something about the limited relationship they shared, that would be betrayed if Lestrade tucked him into a little fantasy.

But he did like the man. He smiled, watching him exert his manipulative prowess toward the single goal of chasing off his “guests.” He could almost hear the peevish, tetchy Old Maid “Shoo! Shoo!” as Mycroft shook hands and waved people out the door.

Then it was over. Anthea went to collect the clean-up crew. Mycroft returned to the balcony, and shot Lestrade a glance. “If I might ask—one of your cigarettes?”

“Already know they’re too strong for you,” Lestrade said, but he shook one free. He waited until Mycroft held it between his lips, then flicked his lighter, waiting until the ember blossomed into life.

“Why do you think our bosses will be less than pleased,” he asked, leaning his elbows on the balustrade, looking out over the dark lawns of the estate Mycroft had chosen for the event.

Mycroft took a very cautious drag from the cigarette, eased the smoke down into his lungs with a fair lot of added air to thin it out, then let it escape in tendrils, rising on the night air. “It’s not in their best interests to be pleased. They reserve that for rare events and for outsiders. Or for those of lower rank who need regular petting to perform well. Me?” He snorted. “I’m the Prime Minister’s whipping boy, and my job is to take my licks and return to duty knowing perfection still eludes me.”

“What? ‘Thank you sir, may I have another?’”

“But of course," he said with a wicked, ironic grin."It’s an Old English Tradition, isn’t it? Especially in certain circles.”

Lestrade’s sense of mischief got the better of him. “Lucky Prime Minister,” he said, teasing. “Bet not everyone gets to lay one on your round rosy.”

Mycroft choked—and it wasn’t because of his cigarette.

Lestrade considered apologizing—but suspected that would only make it worse.

And now, with Mycroft silent beside him, he imagined it, as he hadn’t when he said it. Mycroft bent over a chair, or a desk, trousers and pants down, round bum high, shirt hem fluttering, cock and balls barely hidden between his long thin thighs. He’d have his face hidden in his arms, trying to keep his disciplinarian from seeing him blush—or cry.

There are many first times in any given life. That was the very first time Gregory Lestrade realized he had anything resembling a kink for spanking or caning or paddling. But, then, as suggested, sometimes the right situation has to present itself…

He gulped, then took a deep drag of his own cigarette, staring out still, glad the shadows and the night hid his own blushes.

“It was a figure of speech,” Mycroft murmured—but there was something shaken in his voice.

“Of course,” Lestrade replied. “After all, the Prime Minister!” He made a soft gagging noise. “I daresay you’d resign, rather than put up with that.” Keep it light, he thought. Laugh it off. Maybe we’ll get out of this alive after all.

Mycroft attempted a similar response. “Absolutely. Good heavens, can you think of anything nastier?”

“Saving it for the right man,” Lestrade said, before he thought carefully…but, then, another cop in the bullpen would have picked up the quip and tossed it another round—coarser, more extreme, sillier. Even a female cop would have fielded it better.

Mycroft, though, fell silent.

This time Lestrade didn’t just imagine that white, round bum and the cotton flutter of a too-long shirt. He imagined the certain fact that Mycroft, too, was imagining his round white bum. Imagining the game played with the right man. Imagining a shadowy, strong figure, someone with authority, someone with gravitas—much unlike the current PM. Someone who could impress the weight of his judgement even before applying the weight of his hand…

So Lestrade imagined it, knowing Mycroft imagined it—and that Mycroft imagined it knowing to his embarrassment that Lestrade knew he was imagining it.

There were only a few ways to go from there.

Had Lestrade been younger—say in his green teens—he’d have gone one way. Indeed, in his green teens he had gone one way, in the valiant belief you try anything once. Neither he nor his partner, a pretty girl with a penchant for role play, had enjoyed it much, and they’d moved on to other fantasies the next time they’d lain together. During the years of his marriage Lestrade would have refused outright, for a million reasons, not least out of fear that his wife would like the idea—and that he’d like it too, but for the wrong reasons. The idea of laying into her with his belt strap had been a little too tempting at times… As an adult officer of mid years, he’d turned similar notions down when offered by hookers and coworkers, and rolled his eyes in louche, worldly boredom when the trope had appeared in movies and music hall routines.

That night, though?

He felt his voice drop into the cellars of his chest—deep. Deep and round and imposing.

“You’re quite a naughty boy, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

The words hung in the air between them, and Mycroft took a deep, shaky breath. Then, his voice suddenly lighter and more hesitant than usual, he squeaked, “No, sir! I’m a good boy!”

There. Two phrases. The opening lines of a scene.

They both stood, silent and uneasy.

“Have you done this before?” Lestrade husked at last.

“No. You?”

“No. Or not really. Never…I mean…” He glanced nervously at the other man—taller than him, though also leaner and a bit less muscular. So powerful, in his ordinary life. But Lestrade knew him better than many. Better than almost anyone. He knew the shy boy behind the façade. The thought of that shy boy coming out for a scene shook him in ways he hadn’t known he could be shaken. “It was never very appealing.”

He left off the word “before.” He waited to see if Mycroft had heard it regardless.

Mycroft waited, considering. Staring as Lestrade had, out into the dark lawns and gardens. After a time he said, with quiet dispassion, “You’ve got a very commanding voice, you know. Manly. Imposing. A career as a copper, no doubt.”

“A lot of things are easier if people obey first and think later,” Lestrade conceded. “One does what one can. Keep the peace. Maintain discipline.”

Mycroft looked at him, then—turned to face him, and looked down the inch or two into Lestrade’s eyes. His own were big, and oddly young, and frightened, and vulnerable—and desirous. “You’re quite good at it,” he husked again.

The descision was made without words, in seconds that ticked out between them. In the other room Anthea and her crew were clearing up. Out at the perimeter of the estate security teams changed shifts. Patrols walked the paths and checked the rooms of the mansion.

At some unstated point, it was done. Mycroft ducked his head, a schoolboy caught in mischief. Lestrade, forcing a wicked grin from his face, stood taller, almost managing to top the height of the slumped “boy.”

No words. It was done. Logistics took more.

“Where?”

Mycroft, still keeping his head down, murmured, “Depends on what details you want. And what props.”

Lestrade’s mind caught fire. It was like the fantasy had already existed somewhere in his subconscious, longing to be released on the world.

“Office,” he said, hoarse. “Old-style. Victorian. Got any ideas where we can fake that?”

Mycroft shot him a sidewise glance. “We’re in a country estate, DI Lestrade. National Endowment. Furnishings largely circa 1860. Library with a desk. Will it suit, do you think?” The question was more irony than real.

Lestrade’s smile broke through, again, wicked and gleeful and nasty. “Hand, paddle, or caning? Do you care? Marks or no marks? Safe words?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he drank air. Then, nervous and excited, he whispered, “Any—all. Marks are…fine. No permanent damage. Safe word?”  He stopped, then said, shaken, “I’ve never needed one before. Um… ‘Sherlock.’ I can’t imagine any reason I would ever invoke his name while still, er, content…”

Lestrade nodded, then said, softly, “Need some lubricant.”

Mycroft ducked his head, again an embarrassed boy, but his breath was quick and husky. “No idea,” he admitted. “I don’t usually bring any with me, especially to events of this nature.”

“Me either,” Lestrade said. “We’ll have to improvise. Take us past the ladies’ on the way, yeah?”

The women’s room on that floor had been luxuriously supplied for Mycroft’s party. They collected small individual hand lotion bottles, as well as a box of moist wipes and a large fistful of fluffy, luxurious flannels and several bottles of water. Lestrade grabbed a riding crop off of one wall display of sporting gear, along with a cricket paddle that gave him second thoughts. Mycroft called security to ensure the library would be private. Then they slipped through the darkened halls, Mycroft in the lead, Lestrade following behind, already hard with excitement.

“Here,” Mycroft said, standing beside a double-doored portico. “This is it.”

Lestrade grunted understanding, then took a second before saying in his most imposing voice, “Stay here, boy. You come in when I call you, not one second sooner.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he nodded his obedience. “I will, sir.”

“See you do,” Lestrade growled, and swept into the room, closing the doors firmly in the younger man’s face.

He took a shaky breath and surveyed his stage.

The room was dimly lit. That would have to change. His first move, then, was to go around the windows, closing the thick brocade drapes to shut out escaping light. Then, for more security, he called Anthea, murmuring, “Mr. Holmes and I are holding a private review of the night in the library. Make sure no one interrupts us—any light or sound is just us.”

“Yes, sir. Do you need me?”

Lestrade found himself grinning, thinking he could actually put the pretty, fierce woman to some use in future scenes. But not tonight. “No. We’re fine. Nothing to keep you here unless Mr. Holmes assigned something I don’t know about.”

“No, sir.”

He nodded.

He knew the mood he wanted. Not the blaze of electric lights, but the dim glow of an earlier age. There wasn’t likely to be any kerosene in the old kerosene lamps—indeed, he could see most were already converted to electric in any case. But there were candles. He collected two branches of candelabras, setting them on the sideboard behind the wide library desk. He lit them, then went to the door to evaluate the effect. The light glowed, forming a halo around the desk and the desk chair.

Yes…

He stowed supplies hidden in and around the desk. He found an old wooden ruler, and did some mental revisions of his internal script. He examined himself, deciding his evening dress would fit rather well into the fantasy he had in mind. Victorian vicar headmaster, he thought. Not thunder and damnation—no. Instead, “a beast, but a fair beast.” Someone who’d thrash your bum to within an inch of your life, but leave you feeling no grudge.

He went to stand behind the desk. Then, gauging his voice to be heard clearly outside the room—but not floors away—he called out, “Come in Master Holmes.”

The doors eased open. Mycroft slipped through.

He appeared to have evaluated his own garb, and he’d lost his elegant evening jacket, instead appearing in less formal shirtsleeves and braces. His hair was no longer so very neat, and his fringe hung low over his big eyes. He stood like a frightened boy trying to look brave and dignified—upright, but tense, his hands clutching at his sides.

He looked up the room to the desk, and to Lestrade standing like an emperor behind the desk.

“Sir?” he said.

“Come here, boy.”

Mycroft inched up the room, eyes down, mouth soft and nervous. When at last he stood directly in front of Lestrade, with only the gleaming desk between them, he stopped. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I hear you’ve been a wicked bloody rogue, Master Holmes.”

The boy—for he seemed now a boy in so many ways—hunched his shoulders and ducked his head lower. “Just a bit of a lark, sir,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean anything by it, sir.”

“Put yourself in danger and your mates, too, you young jackanapes. ‘A lark.’ You’ve too much brain and not enough sense, Holmes.”

Lestrade was having a good time in too many ways to count. It was fascinating to watch Holmes meld with his role—one could see how he’d been a success as an agent, even if he’d given up on fieldwork as a general thing. He could play the part with stunning conviction. And oh, the part! He knew that lad—knew him heart and soul and mind. A sweet boy, a bit shy, with only a few close mates. A sense of humor that escaped most of the rest of the school. Far too much creative energy, and far too little experience or maturity to prevent him getting himself in deep water. A wonderful boy.

Hot as hell, too—hot with the hidden secret of an adult Mycroft Holmes waiting to be paddled…and touched…and woken into desire.

God, he’d be incredible. All Lestrade had to do was play his own part.

He sighed a burdened, patriarchal sigh. “What am I going to do with you, Holmes?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“I can’t let you run wild—it will be the ruin of you. Not to mention putting the other lads in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I could expel you, I suppose.”

“Please, sir, no! Please, let me stay!” The boy’s voice shook. He risked a glance up at his headmaster. “Please, sir? I like it here. Better than at home, sir.”

Lestrade shook his head, sternly. “But you don’t learn, Holmes.”

“I do, sir. Just—not all at once?” The boy was clutching at straws, but he was far too intelligent to clutch at ridiculous straws.

Lestrade considered. “Well. Well, then.” He paused, and said, soberly. “But you are working at it. I’m sure of that, you mooncalf. And I would agree you never make exactly the same mistake twice, though God help me, you appear to have trouble understanding the principle.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Lestrade nodded. “Very well. If I’m not to send you off, though, I’ve got to impose more than writing lines or wearing the dunce’s cap. I’m afraid it’s a hiding, boy…and not a light one. You won’t be sitting easily for a few days to come.”

Mycroft’s eyes grew big, and fear lurked, but he straightened. “Yes, Mister Lestrade, sir.”

Lestrade nodded, then paced from behind the desk. He moved to stand just behind Mycroft, watching the boy’s uneasy twitches as he fought not to turn and follow his headmaster with his eyes. “Your trousers—they’ll have to come down, boy. Chop-chop. Braces to the side, trou and pants at low mast.”

Mycroft shoved his wide braces off his shoulders, letting them fall to either side. He fumbled his fly, then pushed the entire assemblage of clothing down—past his bottom, past his thighs, past his knees, bending slightly as he did so. “Like this, sir?”

“Mmm. Now, bend over the desk, boy. Hands flat on either side of your head. No—can’t hide your face. Turn it this way so I can see it. That’s right.” He pushed his voice still deeper, bringing in a level of majesty and judgement. “Know your shame, boy. It can’t be hid—from God or from me.”

“No, sir.” Mycroft’s voice shook with fear and embarrassment.

“Don’t expect mercy from me, boy,” Lestrade growled. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lestrade stepped closer. He reached out and pushed up the tail of Mycroft’s shirt, revealing his bum. He pinned the shirt in place where it hung, planting his free hand in the small of Mycroft’s back. He trailed the fingers of his other hand lightly over the curved cheeks shining in the candle light.

“A first time for everything,” he said, sternly. “You’ll know the meaning of a proper thrashing after this, boy.” Then he raised his arm back and up, the ruler he’d found earlier clutched tight, and brought it down with a smack.

Mycroft yelped and spasmed, unprepared for the shock or the intensity of the pain. Lestrade waited to see if he’d use his safe word before things went any further. But then Mycroft settled, lying tense under Lestrade’s restraining hand. He took a shaky breath—

Which shot out of him before he could enjoy it, as Lestrade brought the ruler down again.

It was a good old-fashioned ruler—the kind of ruler adults kept, made of a length of solid oak, with a brass edge on one side to guide a pen or pencil. Used with carelessness it could have done enormous damage. Lestrade applied it with more care, though. It would leave welts. The blows would roar their pain now, and sting and burn for days to come. The sound of the wood meeting smooth flesh cannoned around the room, sharp and crisp.

Lestrade paused. “Why am I doing this, young Holmes?”

“Been wicked,” Mycroft gasped.

“How?”

“Reckless. Didn’t think.”

“Do you deserve it, you young whelp?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damned right you do,” Lestrade said, and began again.

Mycroft was sweating. His cotton shirt was damp under Lestrade’s hand. A tremor shook him, and with each blow he jerked and gasped.

Lestrade aimed the blows, finding pale skin untouched, finding sensitive areas. Along the thighs. At the join between cheeks and thighs. On the crest of the curve.

He was up to twenty-three strokes when Mycroft whimpered aloud, the sound flowing from him without check. On twenty-five he began to cry outright, sobs taking him, shaking him. But his hands stayed to either side of his face, flat on the desk. He didn’t use his safe word. Lestrade watched his face crumple and twist, tears flowing over the bridge of his nose to fall on the polished wood below.

He almost asked if the other man wanted it done. He decided he didn’t—and that he’d want Lestrade to make that choice regardless.

He dealt out a steady, unwavering six more, then stopped.

The room was silent but for Lestrade’s huffing breath, slightly winded from the exertion, and Mycroft’s quiet sobs.

Lestrade patted the boy softly with the hand that had pinned him. “There, there, son. You did well—good job. Valiant job. That’s a fine fellow… Here. Let me tend you, sir. You’ve done us proud. Just stay there and I’ll see to you. You’ve had the thrashing, and there’s nothing left to fear.” He let go and dug in his pockets, finding the lotion bottles he’d hidden there earlier. He slipped one out and squeezed cool aloe gel onto his fingers. He began to dab it over the puffy red bars that marked Mycroft’s bottom, dark and sore-looking in the golden light from the candelabras. He slipped his fingers along one long, dark stripe. “There, boy, there,” he said, voice no longer majestic, but tender and gentle. “You’ve been a brave young man. A credit to the school.”

Mycroft gasped at the blended pain and soothing ease of the gel, the sting and gentleness of the fingers tending to his bum. “Sir,” he snuffled, trying to stop his own tears. “Thank you, sir.”

Lestrade continued, working gel down each marked strike. “You’re a good lad at heart, Mycroft. I know that. A fine fellow. You want to be good—I know you want to be good.”

He could feel Mycroft responding to the entire scene, now—the man continued to shake, and even as he calmed soft sobs still came and went. At the same time, though, his breath was becoming deeper and more ragged.

Lestrade took a risk, and stood away, pretending to go and adjust the candles so the light fell more clearly on Mycroft’s bottom. Coming back, hidden in Mycroft’s blind spot, he twisted and peered below.

Yes, he thought, with mixed amusement, delight, and desire—the other man was hard, his cock arching up, trying to reach the underside of the lip of the desk. It was hopeless, though—inches of air between that plump tip and even the dream of friction.

Lestrade felt safe moving the scene along, though. When he came back he started spreading the gel more widely, working it into the round peach cheeks of Mycroft’s butt. At first he stopped at the seam, where cheek met cheek. Then his finger slipped between, smoothing the gel further and further toward Mycroft’s arsehole.

He didn’t proceed beyond that, yet, though—instead he dropped down and cradled Mycroft’s balls in one palm, rolling them gently in the slick gel, then massaging the slick handful softly, softly, but steadily. He felt Mycroft’s balls slip and turn inside their sack. Above there was a low, hungry gasp and sigh.

Lestrade smiled to himself. “My goodness, young Holmes,” he said, softly. “You’re taking this quite seriously, aren’t you? I am impressed. Apparently a sound thrashing does you good.”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft said, voice grown breathy.

“I may have to thrash you more often, if it makes this much impression on you. What do you think, boy?”

“Whatever you think right, sir.”

“Now there’s a good lad! But we can’t send you back out like this, no matter how proper it is, can we? Should I continue to help you recover, boy?”

“Please, sir?”

Lestrade hummed, a warm, kindly note. “Well, then, if you’d like it,” he said, and stood again, slipping his fingers between Mycroft’s cheeks. One slipped inside, and Mycroft gasped.

“Hush, now,” Lestrade said. “You can do this. It’s much easier than the thrashing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two fingers. He spread them wide, stretching and tugging. Mycroft whined—this time not in pain, but in pleasure.

Three fingers.

“Sir?” Mycroft said, voice breathy and uneven.

“Yes?”

“Might I sit on your lap, sir? For a while? Before I go?”

Lestrade imagined pink and crimson skin, striped with welts, sitting on the tight wool weave of his dress trousers. Part of him wanted to say pitifully that the suit was a rental. The other part silenced him—it would break the scene, and further, if this went well Lestrade was willing to bet Mycroft would cover all expenses. And the thought of holding “the boy” in his arms, sliding him down Lestrade’s rock-hard shaft, pinning him like a bayonette and riding him up and down with his sweet, sore bottom smacking against Lestrade’s thighs…

“Yes,” he managed to say—then stalked away from Mycroft, fingers already racing to the button of his fly. He sat in the huge oak chair behind the desk, and gasped. “Come sit on my lap, little lad. I’ll see to you.”

Mycroft stood, then, straightening for the first time since they’d begun. It was clear it hurt—not permanent, crippling pain, but enough to tighten his cheeks and make his lips disappear as he bit back the sting and burn. Lestrade watched a random tear trickle down as Mycroft’s eyes watered with his effort. He walked gingerly around the desk, and stood in front of Lestrade, then held his arms out.

Lestrade helped him clamber into place, rising high—then sinking onto Lestrade’s cock.

For the first time that night Lestrade’s pleasures went from pure mind-fuck to physical rapture.

“God,” he gasped. “God. You’re…so…”

“Good,” Mycroft whispered in his ear. “I’m a good boy, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Lestrade agreed, and pulsed upward. He spidered one hand down, finding Mycroft’s cock. He thumbed the round, fat head, spreading pre-come and gel as he did so, and listened as Mycroft sang out mixed pain and delight—his bum on fire, his arse full, his cock caressed.

Then Mycroft’s lips were claimed, and the two men moaned into each other and breathed in ragged duets. They traced each other’s faces. Lestrade lapped the salty, sweet tears from Mycroft’s face. He wrapped one arm around Mycroft’s lower back, using it to drive the man down harder and deeper onto his cock, harder onto his thighs. He shifted in place, forcing the gritty, itchy wool against Mycroft’s raw cheeks.

“Is it good?”

“Yes…”

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, God, yes….” Mycroft whined as Lestrade’s thighs brought each ruler-smack to life again. He sniveled, feeling it mixed up with the insane arousal that continued at the same time.

“But it’s good?”

“It’s good,” he said again, frustrated and needy and peeved and grateful and suddenly, desperately, completely infatuated with the man who had mastered their scene—and mastered Mycroft.  “Take me,” he gasped. “Make me…make me…” He didn’t know what he wanted Lestrade to make him do anymore. He just knew he wanted it…

Lestrade churned beneath him, rose up in him, filled him, rubbed his outside raw and his inside into rapture. He stroked the head of his cock. He suckled on his lips. He nipped and lapped and crooned—and Mycroft dissolved in climax, only to feel Lestrade follow, surging high, pounding deep, moaning into Mycroft’s shoulder as he came and came in waves.

Then they were done, gasping against each other.

“Good boy,” Lestrade said again, softly, his hand stroking Mycroft’s shoulders. “Good, sweet boy.”

Mycroft buried his face in his lover’s shoulder. “God. You should be made a judge. You’d have even the silks on their knees begging your pardon for sneezing.” What he wanted to say was Lestrade was every strong, kind, powerful man who’d ever attracted Mycroft’s roaming eye, or shaken his longing soul.

Lestrade seemed to hear what was not said. He reached up and stroked the back of Mycroft’s head, his nape, his neck. “Sweet boy,” he murmured again.

And then they said nothing for the next hour, just touching and murmuring wordless affection. When they did at last speak, the scene was over, and they set about cleaning up behind themselves and removing evidence with casual aplomb.

“I’d never done that before,” Mycroft said. “Never.”

“Me, neither.”

“I didn’t know…” He blushed. It was embarrassing to know how much he’d enjoyed the scene. How much he’d liked the pain, knowing that it was limited and that he could stop at any time. It was embarrassing knowing that over the next few days he’d wallow in the memories triggered by his sore bottom.

Lestrade grinned, eyes stating his understanding even if words didn’t. “Don’t feel bad. Didn’t know I’d have such a fun with a naughty boy,” he said. Then, chuckling, he said, “Hope you learned you lesson.”

“And if I didn’t?”

“Cheeky thing. I may have to bring you over to mine and have more stern words for you.”

Mycroft smiled sweetly. “You might have to come right on over to mine and teach me manners in my own home. I can be terribly sassy, you know.”

“Never been to yours,” Lestrade murmured, eyes laughing.

Mycroft, leading them away, smiled to himself, and murmured, “There’s a first time for everything, DI Lestrade. And there are always more to come...


End file.
